The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals

by Craig Halloran

  CHAPTER 48

  Trinos felt something like enjoyment from the affects her ripples were having on her world called Bish. Actually, it was not so much the ripples themselves as the ripples upon ripples that filled her with mild amusement. Was this how some worlds were able to reach infinite status? Worlds that were not supposed to make it made it anyway, while those that should have made it did not. Had other beings like herself tinkered too much for their own good, perhaps sending in ripples of good that turned bad?

  Trinos felt she should know the answer to this, but then again, many of the laws of her universe had not been revealed. The end of her universe was yet to be found and certainly that was where the answers would lie. And without an objective, outside view of the universe, how could the universe ever be fully explained? This, of course, was not the problem Trinos had been assigned by her kind. But it did spark a thought now and again. She would see parallels between her life within the universe and the life on her tiny world called Bish. Interesting.

  Trinos had also found certain points in her captivating world that required additional study. In particular, there was the matter of conflict. She had created a world that contained both boundaries and conflict. The main boundary was a lack of interest in understanding any complicated formulas of science. The creatures of Bish lacked either the intelligence or the drive to study why they existed or why there were two suns and moons, all changing as she so desired. The people of Bish did not care about her stars or why they were there. It just was.

  The only driving force was for power and control over the other beings in their world. Some races wanted peace, while others wanted war. One race could not ignore or survive without the other. In general, the races of Bish exhibited very little compassion, friendship, or joy. The people were hard and their need to survive and conquer always outweighed their need for affection. Greed and betrayal kept breaking down alliances and friendships, leaving all in Bish forever watching their own backs.

  The creation of Bish had also led Trinos to contemplate the nature of good and evil. She had instilled both good and evil—although she herself was unable to engage in either—in order to confer strife. There had to be acts that resembled one or the other. Or had she merely created persons with good and evil traits for the sake of her own entertainment?

  Trinos began to wonder if Bish was perhaps not such a good idea after all. She pondered destroying it, but could not. Would a mother destroy her own children? She continued her study.

  Most worlds she had studied were created on a basis of neutrality and shaped by the natural will of the creator. How these worlds turned out depended on those rules. The specific needs of the world would then either enlighten or extinguish it. Trinos, however, had created a world differently. Or had she? And she had instilled characteristics of other worlds, but not allowed room for change. She had, in a sense, created good and evil from her own free will. Did that mean she was not the neutral being she had always thought she was? Had she bent the rules of her kind for her own entertainment? So be it.

  All this contemplation took place in mere seconds as she arrived at her conclusion. Whatever she may have done, the world she had created could not possibly affect anything else in her universe other than itself. With that last thought, Trinos abandoned her observations of Bish, and returned to her study of the comings and goings of the other worlds. Perhaps she would discover some similarities to her world while the world of Bish kept on churning.

  CHAPTER 49

  “AAAUGH!”

  A man screamed from the dusky chamber below the Castle Almen.

  “My head hurting!”

  Tonio was on his feet, screaming and clutching his head. The young man tore at his bandages, jostling over tables and chairs. The cleric Sefron offered soothing chants only to see the rampaging man square off on him. The flabby cleric was all alone when Tonio’s hands wrapped around his neck.

  Sefron’s bald head purpled like a turnip, wet eyes almost bulging from the sockets, tongue curling like a salted slug. Tonio shook the man, squeezing harder as he spat through his busted lips.

  “Vee-Man!”

  Sefron’s hypnotic eyes locked onto Tonio’s torn and twisted face. The young man’s pupils were black dots, lips curled in pain, brows buckled with hatred. Sefron couldn’t breathe, but he could think. Let go. Let go. The cleric’s eyes made the suggestion as he was being forced downward on the pillow-filled bed. Sefron fought to hold the man’s gaze, refusing to look away as his air began to fade. Let go. Stop. Let go. Stop. Sefron’s eyes and mind pleaded for escape.

  Tonio’s screams began to soften and his grip slackened. Sefron felt himself regain control, slowly, very slowly. Let go. Stop. Tonio became still. Sefron rolled off the bed and sank to the floor, gasping for air. The cleric’s pasty skin turned from purple to red to pink and finally white. The cleric struggled back to his feet, knees wobbling as Lord Almen burst through the door.

  “What has happened, Sefron?” he demanded, looking at his son who was standing on the bed. “I heard screams from the kitchen.” Almen’s voice betrayed a hint of worry.

  Sefron rubbed his throat, trying to find his voice. A few croaks came out as he turned toward Lord Almen.

  “Good news … eh … good news … uh … my Royal Lord Almen,” he answered grimacing. “Er … He woke up!”

  Lord Almen’s heated scowl almost sent him running. Slat! Think fast!

  “When they do awaken … it is usually with a great deal of delirium and pain. But I … I mean he … is lucky.”

  The shifty cleric had recovered his wind and tried to smile saying, “He is surprisingly powerful, and had I not kept my composure, I would surely be dead now, with Tonio on a rampage. Your son is powerful indeed.”

  “Hmmm … I know how this goes. But I thought you would have it under better control, Sefron.”

  Lord Almen walked around the beds edge studying the mangled skin of his boy. Sefron could see Lord Almen’s face tighten, dry eyes becoming moist.

  “I thought so too, my lord,” Sefron’s tone was upbeat, “… but he came out of his healing slumber sooner than expected. He is a fine specimen and a true warrior. I’ve not seen one recover so fast.”

  Despite Sefron’s ingratiating manner, his words were true.

  “I have something else I discovered as well, my lord.” Sefron bowed, awaiting notice from his master.

  Lord Almen’s voice came like a crack of thunder.

  “What!?”

  “He was drugged,” a new voice said from the doorway.

  Lord Almen’s broad shoulders twisted around as Sefron’s whipped his neck over his back. It was McKnight, hat off and head bowed. Sefron glared at McKnight with all his hatred. Arsehole!

  “How do you know this, McKnight?” asked Almen.

  “Well …”

  Sefron stepped between them, blocking McKnight from Lord Almen’s view.

  “I found traces of various inducers in his body, my lord. This detective is only guessing. I have proof. He couldn’t possibly know this. I’ll show you.”

  Sefron hurried to the tall body of Tonio that stood like a statue, staring blank at the wall. The cleric took the battered man by the hand and led Tonio from the bed like a lucid child. Lord Almen nodded and Sefron continued.

  Sefron caught McKnight’s grinning face, but hid his heartless scowl. Sefron hated McKnight, his charm, his privileges and trust he did not have. The detective was a pain in the neck, always keeping a wary eye on his spiny back.

  “My lord, when a person is drugged—in this case it was consumed—the inducers that are used do not dissolve properly in the system. They are thick juices of specific types; in this case it is the purple leaf from the Red Clay Forest. It is one of the rarest plants on Bish. The juice does in fact dissolve out of the body, but slowly, sometimes over weeks. However, the effects of purple leaf only last a few hours, but this is quite long enough for a person to implant one, or maybe two, solid suggestions.”

&n
bsp; “I know what purple leaf is, Sefron!” Lord Almen shouted. “Do you think I need a refresher course in manipulation? Poison?”

  Sefron dropped to his knees, cringing at the edge of the royal Lord’s robes.

  “Forgive me master!”

  McKnight began backing towards the door.

  “Get up!” Lord Almen said.

  Sefron feebly rose to his feet, head down.

  “Okay then, Sefron,” Lord Almen said in a softer tone. “How did you know?”

  The cleric bounded towards Tonio, flabby arms jiggling.

  “I cast a minor spell designed to extract poison. It bled out from Tonio’s bowels. And it showed up purple in his urine and stool, my lord. I have it over here my lord,” Sefron said, grabbing a bowl from the bed.

  “I’m glad that you checked him out thoroughly this time, Sefron. The last time you were not so careful.”

  Sefron couldn’t hide the look of surprise and fear growing on his face as McKnight watched him, needling his chin.

  “Now, when can I expect Tonio to be back to normal?” Lord Almen said.

  Sefron set the bowl back down and said, “My lord, I am sure Oran’s resurrection will have the same consequences as the others. Tonio will operate as a better warrior with greater strength and pain tolerance, but his constitution will not be quite what it was. Resurrection takes a lot out of a person—as you know. But as he wasn’t dead long, I think his mind will be almost eighty percent. Such resurrections don’t restore a person’s full humanity. And the scars he shall wear may make him rather irritable.”

  There was a long pause after Sefron’s statement. The cleric’s eyes twitched, darting back and forth between the three superior men.

  Lord Almen let out a sigh and said, “Indeed. My son was a fine looking warrior. He will be, how shall I put it, maniacal and sick from time to time … and his mother is not to know of this. Understand!”

  Both the detective and cleric nodded.

  Lord Almen walked around his son, continuing his inspection, running his fingers over the wounds of the hypnotized young man.

  “Dear Tonio,” he muttered in a low, callous voice, “what a life you have set up for yourself from now on.”

  The Royal Lord turned back to Sefron.

  “Make sure he is calm when I next come to see him. When you get him under control, I need him dressed—and induced if need be—so I can make sure he is prepared for his new role.”

  “Yes my lord,” Sefron said, bowing.

  Lord Almen turned to a guard’s corpse that was lying alongside the wall.

  “What happened here Sefron?”

  “When Tonio awoke, screaming, the sentry charged in and tried to restrain him. Tonio slammed the man into the wall like a rag doll.”

  Lord Almen lifted his chin and nodded.

  “McKnight, come with me. I’d like you to explain what you’ve discovered. Sefron, I’ll send another sentry.”

  The two men left Tonio and Sefron alone in the healing chambers. Sefron saw McKnight shoot him a wink and he responded with an obscene gesture of his own. Arsehole!

  CHAPTER 50

  Oran the underling cleric arrived home with his barge full of slaves. He led them off the barge and into the underground river called the Current. Their feet and legs sank into the sandy bank forcing him to pull them along by the ropes that held them. They followed him, silent and morbid, in a labyrinth filled with stalagmites, stalactites, streams, ponds and bats. It was pitch black, the setting into which all underlings were born and raised. These men, women and children were some of the few creatures that ever ventured beneath the word of Bish.

  He could see a feint blue light ahead in the distance. Oran let out a sigh. It wasn’t the Underland, but it wasn’t far from the same. He took his prisoners inside a cave cell then closed an ancient iron door behind him. He took a key off a metal peg in the rock and locked the door shut. The blue light danced off their shivering faces. He had plans for them.

  He shuffled his robed feet over the dry cave floor until he found himself back in a large cavern. Over his head jagged stalactites jutted from the ceiling, casting shadows in the eerie light. Candles burned, large and small, not with yellow and orange flames as on the surface of Bish, but in flickering hues of pink, green and blue. He walked along a wall of shelves, filled with myriad glass jars containing heads, arms, legs, hearts, and every other appendage imaginable. What most beings would regard as a show of timeless horror was stylish décor to Oran. This is what he called home.

  The thick glass tanks and jars on all of the shelves and tabletops were filled with human contents. The tormented faces of men and women, and sometimes an entire child, could be seen in their liquid graves. Oran chuckled as he tapped on the glasses with a twisted sneer. This was his research for the greater advancement of his race, and for his quest for knowledge.

  The acquisition of humanoids had its price, of course. Oran was neither a hunter nor a slayer. He had to provide payment or service for the creatures he sought. Magic, metal or precious stones, the humans were suckers for it all. The human remains were plentiful in his labs, but the more difficult races appeared in jars as well. There were dwarfs, dog-faced gnolls, orcs, and even some long-legged striders to be discovered, among others. But most of the less common races were of little threat compared to the insurmountable numbers of humans. Only the underlings came close to matching them in number, but it just wasn’t enough.

  Oran felt tired as he trekked into the most welcoming part of his lair. He slumped into a massive couch layered with red and purple velvet pillows. He stared into a jar with a pickled head of a black bearded dwarf. It was a victim from centuries ago. He blew dust from the corked opening on the top and stretched. He wanted to take a nap for only a week or so, but more pressing matters were at hand. The news of the Darkslayer could not wait.

  He pulled one of his black toes to his lips and bit a few of his nails off. He spat the black bits into a small bronze bowl. He twitched his fingers together over the nails and the bits caught fire. Black smoke rose and crackled from the flame. The scent of acid filled his nose. He closed his eyes and began murmuring a spell.

  For many minutes, Oran murmured and chattered in various high and low crescendos. Sometimes fast-paced and sometimes slow, he kept the rhythm steady. His body stiffened as his face drew tight. Every syllable he uttered tingled in his bones. Power filled him. Magic coursed through his unwavering lips while his mind harnessed the magic of another realm. The energy he summoned felt like a river rushing over him, it passed, leaving him as dry as a desert. Oran collapsed back on his couch with a gasp ….

  Several hours had passed before he awoke. He sat up on his couch, rubbing his blurry eyes with his hands and wiping his drool on his sleeve. Staring at him was a big, unblinking eye. It was Eep the imp. Eep was three feet tall, with two legs, two arms, two leathery wings, and a head with just one large eye. His muscular arms ended in three-clawed fingers and a thumb, and his thick bumpy skin was a mixture of grey, brown, and black. The imp had a hawk nose and its wide nostrils seemed to point to its grin. Eep opened his mouth full of white, razor-sharp teeth and a long tail-like tongue. Eep was a small horror with a very big smile.

  “It’s been long, Eep,” Oran said, stretching.

  “You could say so!”

  Eep spoke in a scratchy rasp.

  “Years! We used to spend so much time together, killing humans and the like. Those were the days. So master,” Eep asked clutching its claws, “what wicked bidding awaits me now?”

  Oran had got off the couch and poured himself a glass of underling port.

  “I need you to run a message to lords Verbard and Catten for me.”

  “What!?”

  The imp’s wings fluttered, rising him in the air as it said, “Deliver a message? To them? Can’t we go and kill people like we used to? Please?”

  Oran took a long draw of his drink. His throat was dry and there was nothing like the fermented juices from unde
rneath Bish to sooth it.

  “No, Eep. That can wait. I need haste! You are the only one who can give me that.”

  Eep’s wings slowed as his clawed toes landed on the ground. Imps fed well on compliments.

  “Please master, I haven’t been summoned in a very long time. You gotta let me kill someone.”

  Eep gnashed his teeth and clawed the air.

  “I gotta kill something, master Oran, I just gotta! It’s been too long!”

  “Oh, quit begging, Eep! When you get back, I have some fresh meat ready for you to play with. My word. Now properly deliver the message to Lord Verbard and Lord Catten. I can’t have you killed like last time, either, so watch your tongue.”

  The imp bunched up, its tongue rolling back in its mouth, and said, “Ooh, I hate those two. They had no business doing that. It was just for their pleasure–and it hurt. Nothing can hurt me usually, but they did.”

  Eep paced back and forth, its orbish eye blinking.

  “They’d better not kill me this time … no-no … Master Oran. If it happens it’s harder to come back. I think so, anyway; I can’t remember because it’s been so long.”

  “Quiet, Eep,” said Oran with his palm out. “The news you shall deliver is positive news about the tracking of the Darkslayer. They will be pleased and we shall gain favor. I assure you, not even lords Verbard and Catten will want to tease you with their twisted musings.